Megan's Remembrances
by PhantomsPandora
Summary: This is just a short story about Meg, no it isn't a Meg and Erik fic, or anything like that, and no, it will not be E/C! R&R if you want
1. Megan's Story Part 1

Disclaimer: Hey guys, I think it's pointless to write these things over but since I have to I have to. I sadly do not own poto, Erik, Christine, or Meg. Please do not ask me what possessed me to write this, it's almost 6 am and I haven't slept a wink in days, it feels. I promise to work on my other stories, this one begged to be told so naturally, I answered. If it sucks, please tell me, I'm really worried that it does.   
  
Oh, I can't believe I'm writing this. I'm so foolish and childlike, but I simply must account my adventures, as it were. Give myself a voice to all this crazy madness. Rather that I'm so afraid that if I do not write it, it will seem as my mother calls it, "one of Megan's stories".  
  
This is in a way, one of my stories, or rather, my side of the ordeal. Oh, if I talk this way maybe it will seem all too impersonal, and of course, I can't be having that. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Megan Giry, daughter of the ballet teacher/mistress Madame Giry. I am in the corps de ballet, and I perform here at the Paris Opera House, Charles Garnier's exalted creation.  
  
If you ever find this and are lucky enough to find me, here is a description. I am now almost seventeen years old, I am short, but have a dancers body, and have long blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Maybe by the time you read this I will be a prima ballerina, or wed to some charming man. I say charming, because I cannot say handsome, or, attractive. These two descriptions mean nothing now when it comes to finding love, for love only knows the true inside, and not a face.  
  
That is the lesson I learned, and if it seems too sentimental, well, I can only say that my feelings are influenced by my events today. You see, I had to help Christine return the angel of music to heaven. She couldn't say "bury", or anything like that . If you knew Christine Daae, then you would know why. Such harsh words are too rough to come out of her mouth.   
  
Back to the subject. I helped return the angel of music to heaven. My mother thought this was a horrible task to be asked of me, seeing as I still had the heart of a child and not of a woman (who would ever want to be a woman if it means doing things like this?), but that I was a loyal friend and saw that Christine could never do it alone.   
  
I had only seen a few corpses in my lifetime, and never by choice, I assure you. It is difficult to be the strong friend that I have to be, I feel so inadequate because Christine is a few years older than me and I am of course, not well versed in love, seeing as how the only relationships I have seen were in the Opera's and Ballet's that were performed here. Christine has the mentality of a child at times, and my mother says it is like her personality stopped developing when her father died, waiting subconsciously to grow up somehow. It amazes me how fast these big words fly on the paper, I am usually a simple minded little girl. Maybe it is that I am a girl no longer, and lay somewhere between the precipice of these two stages. Christine has changed into a woman, but at times she can fly back into that stage of childhood and she has to be reminded that she isn't a child.  
  
If it hadn't been for my mother's firm guidance into this matter, I don't know how I ever should have got through it. She is such a dear woman, though no one takes the time to listen to her (I think this might be because of her gender, as I've come to notice that her position at the Opera does not guarantee her a chance to exercise her opinion) . It was the angel's wish, or rather, Erik's wish that Christine bury him in his home. My mother had such a loyalty to Erik that she felt she would be intruding on his wishes for her to help Christine, and so of course I had to go.   
  
Erik wouldn't mind me, however, Christine said as we walked down the steps to get in the boat. I had after all, seen him pass on to this world from the next. This I did not tell Christine, as she had secrets herself about Erik that she would never tell me. I had my own life, and my own experiences, and if I kept a few to myself well, that wouldn't matter. His death and consequent burial was a secret too, and even though he had done horrible things, he deserved dignity. To say that he was an animal or monster takes away his dignity and grace, and while the world can say such things, I of course, cannot.   
  
The lovers that passed through the Opera House, for there were three, Erik (even now I can't begin a description, and to let him pass without one is a disservice), Raoul a patron, and Christine, my friend all loved here. It however cannot go without saying that love is full of suffering with a few wonderful moments of joy, and this I observed while their love for each other was declared. I do not know the feeling myself and at this point, do not wish it for a long time, girlish fantasies aside.   
  
Where he is buried, I will not commit to memory because he wished to rest in peace. He was never given the dignity and respect in life that a human being deserves, and even in death criminals deserve peace. One could not call Erik a criminal, however, as his crimes were only to those that some might consider fit to receive his punishment. A crime is still a crime, but it matters not, anymore. If Christine can forget, then so can I. For he is dead now.   
  
I will say that I remember vividly (for what is Erik but a maker of vivid and sometimes jarring memories, like a painting?) the first real time I spoke with Erik. I call him Erik because perhaps I can wish that in the end he would not mind it, as the terms Opera Ghost, Phantom of the Opera, and other classifications for him are demeaning and not worthy of his memory. Let me back track a bit to the night of the Bal Masque, when he showed up as the Red Death from Edgar Allen Poe's Poetry. I had been having such fun with mother, sipping Champagne and parading in my costume.  
  
Christine did not seem to have time for me, and at length, it made me angry. She was caught up in a whirlwind of love and romance, and it was tinged with fear. Maybe she did not want to confide in me because she was afraid of Erik hearing everything. It was a fear that was well backed up by facts and at the time I did not want to accept that, nor remember the night the chandelier came down upon the stage. I did not go to her-maybe it was my selfish pride or that I felt not needed. After all, at the time I thought that I was too young and now that Christine had a new future, she would not want to talk to me anymore.   
  
My selfish mind told me Christine only wanted to be friends with me because I could keep my mouth shut, not that she really desired company. The other rats (what an affectionate term!) in the ballet were as secretive as an open window, always flowing with tidbits of gossip. I was always an odd little girl, and perhaps I was thought to be a person that she saw as trusting. I am glad that I was the person she told her secrets to.  
  
Back to the night of the Masquerade, as I keep drifting off topic. By the time that the Masque was getting well underway the champagne had turned my good mood into a sour one. I was sulking and angry. I was jealous that Christine had only time for Raoul, our patron of the Opera House. They had been children together one summer when I was still much a little girl-I do not recall the year that she told me. Raoul had rescued her red scarf from the sea one day while Christine and her father were singing and playing music upon the beach. They were friends from the instant, and Christine's father would tell them both gothic stories from northern Europe.   
  
I learned this all when Christine told me in her room about the Angel of music, and it was a beautiful story and I could not deny that I too would have been swept away by it's promise. After the chandelier dropped, she stopped talking to me and everyone else, and I missed her stories of the past. The night of the Bal Masque was difficult to describe. I had hoped so much that Christine might have taken notice of me and spoke to me instead of dancing away with Raoul. It would seem to everyone that I am a cheerful child that would make friends easily, but I do not and when I do find a friend that I can speak to, I dote on their every word.   
  
My mother had tried to cushion the blow as best she could and kept me distracted for a while with ballet, and told me to pursue my girlish fancies to my hearts content. I learned that was hard to do that by myself, and did not try as I should have. At any rate, that night started out fun, but in the end I became downtrodden and sad, thinking my older friend was truly done with me.   
  
Then, of course, Erik appeared. To say appeared might be a disservice, for one cannot say enter. He simply was there as if by magic, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Christine shrink back and hide in the comforting shadow of Raoul's body. The events of that night scarred me wholly. I do not think that I have ever seen something so frightening, except of course the death he gave the men in his traps in his house underneath the Opera.   
  
The mask that he had on frightened me, for it was so realistic and I was at the time, a child easily frightened. The jaw of the mask moved when he spoke, and how he achieved making such a feature I really and truly do not know. I was frightened beyond belief at his tone and his nature, and silently I crossed myself and prayed that he would be brief with Christine and not horrify her. Though, of course, my wish was impossible to grant.   
  
After he disappeared underneath the trap door the party broke up at once, needless to say. There was an investigation, and everyone was called on to stay long into the night (not unlike most parties, except no one could enjoy their alcohol, music or dancing) to give their accounts on the incident. Christine and Raoul however left immediately, and the police were furious that they had to depend on the questionable evidence given by the already drunken and hysteric witnesses. They were not interested about information from a child, and quietly I slipped away into a place where I could place my thoughts.   
  
I felt someone run past me, a rustling of sound as I entered the darkened room. I wouldn't scream, no, it was too usual in this Opera to find a ballet student had taken her lover into a darkened room. I discretely wanted to exit, when I felt his hand come over my mouth. His eyes bored into mine as if he were trying to read my very mind. I had always received the reproving look of my mother, as if she knew my scheming mind and heart, and this look was no different, only more severe. I could barely breathe.   
  
He told me not to scream, rather he hissed it. I could no more than nod, my whole body shivering with Goosebumps. His fingers were thin, cold, and clammy, as if he was nervous, even afraid. But his glare gave away to the contrary.   
  
"I won't harm you, Megan Giry." He said, and then took his hand from my mouth. I was too stunned, and my feet failed to help me in my flight. So I was frozen there.   
  
"Harm me?" I whispered.  
  
"Yes, though I probably should with all the lies you helped spread about me."  
  
I could not break his hold on me and so I stood there. "They…were just…stories. I didn't know you were real." I stuttered.  
  
"Ah yes, if it doesn't exist in your world, it doesn't have feelings to hurt. It. Even a ghost was a person at one point, Mademoiselle. Not to worry, it is a common mistake, even Christine seems to forget that I too have ways of hearing her. Why she even forgot you, did she not? All for her Vicomte. " He muttered abstractedly.  
  
I began to cry, out of shear fear and otherwise, well pity. "She'll remember me, Monsieur."  
"When it necessary to her, I'm sure she will. Do not cry."  
  
I tried my best to still myself and stop my sniffling. His eyes were still upon me and I was silently wishing for my mother to find me. "She is my friend, please do not talk about her so. Whatever has happened between you and she, do not punish me for it."  
  
His eyes softened and he too began to cry. I cannot express on paper what that cry was like to hear, only that if I was strong enough I might have comforted him by a kind word. However I wasn't, and I stayed quiet.   
  
"Christine….." He gasped. " She is an angel among men, Erik was wrong to put her down so, and certainly not in front of her friend. You won't tell a soul, will you, Megan?"  
  
I watched him and finally got a glimpse of him in the dank light that was provided. All I could see was a man taking off his feathered hat to untie his mask. I looked the other way.  
  
"They say, your hands at the level of your eyes. Erik will not show you his face, Megan. Erik wouldn't."  
  
I realized he was talking to himself, as a hysterical man. I finally gathered my thoughts and was able to speak , kneeling towards him as he was on the floor. "No, I'll never tell anyone as I live, just let me go."  
  
"You won't tell Christine?" He looked at the ground, and I was grateful that I could not see his face. As I have said I am frightened easily.   
  
"No, I won't tell." I whispered again.   
  
"Leave!" He growled, pushing me away. "You are free to go as long as you keep your vow of silence!"  
  
I confess that I didn't even look back and ran into my mother's arms. My mother noticed the change immediately but did not say a word, and I suppose that maybe that was for the best, all things considered.   
  
  
Ok, that's it for the first part, Tell me what you liked about it, or hated about it. 


	2. Megan's Story Part 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing *weeps* the fans own nothing! We OWN NOTHING!! WHY!! WHY!!! Ok, enough of my sillyness, here's where it ends it self. As I have said this is Meg's story, I hope you like it.  
  
I think it is safe to say that the next few events are well recorded. I tried my best to speak with Christine, but she was so scared and did not talk with me very much. The pranks that the Opera Ghost pulled on me stopped completely. I can only guess it was because I never spoke of that night to anyone. Well, except for now, but I doubt a soul will read this. And surely, Erik would not mind now.   
  
Again, the part I played in this is tiny-I was Christine Daae's friend. She had to flee with Raoul, and Nadir took care of Erik, until …well until he could no longer live. He requested my mother at his bedside, and consequently, asked for me as well. At the time I could not understand why-after all, I had a small part to play, as I've always said. It felt as if my friendship with Christine was gone, and I mourned it. As I no longer was connected with Christine, I didn't think it would matter.   
  
Everyone took their turn listening to what he had to say, and as he didn't have much strength to say it. I could see that the end was near, and it scared me. My father had died before I could remember him, and the few people I had seen that were sickly, I tried my best to escape the situation. That's not to say I am a uncaring person…it's just that I have a hard time handling reality. I think I have a better grasp on it now.   
  
His house was in utter shambles, the pipe organ ripped apart. I dare say I do not want to know what kind of physical strength it would take to do such a thing. The only thing saved from his wrath was the room he had made for Christine. There he lay in the bed, the velvet curtains drawn to where I could not see but could hear him. The room was lit with the comforting yellow light of a lamp. I did not like the idea of being in here alone, but my curiosity overwhelmed me. There was a plate of broth on the night stand that had gone cool and skin was forming on the top of it. I whimpered and sat near the bed, waiting for,...well I wasn't sure exactly what I was waiting for.   
  
He had requested my presence alone, and I was the last to be in the room. In a strange sense it made me feel important-that I was important enough to be recognized by someone, anyone. My mother had come out of the room patting me on the shoulder distractedly. I was grateful that my mother gave me that comfort, for I saw she was desperately sad and holding back her own tears.  
  
How could whom the world called a psychopath and a monster bring such emotion and compassion from us? I sighed and waited, listening to the raspy breathing. Maybe he had fallen asleep, I mused, I wished that he was dead, for his own sake, even though I wouldn't want to make that discovery myself.  
  
"Megan Giry, hand me my water." The once beautiful voice was now raspy, and cracked easily. I whimpered and handed him his water through the curtain. He held on to my wrist shakily until he could grasp the glass, and I was astonished at how weak his grip had become.  
  
I cried silently watching such a dignified and graceful man suffer so. Then heard the glass slip from his hand and I deftly caught it before it spilled to the floor. In a minute of understanding, I opened the curtain and tried my best to smile.   
  
I did not look upon his face, but on the other side of the wall. I owed him the respect and dignity-in fact, my mother would have demanded it of me had it not come naturally. I tried my best to look comforting. "I caught it just in time." I said softly.  
  
I realized he was too proud to ask for the glass of water again, for he could not face the humiliation of dropping it on himself or having it break on the floor.   
  
"Thank you. I don't want a glassy mess upon my floor you know. I've been saving bits of glass for a while now, it used to fascinate me as a child, stained glass did. When you leave, there should a envelope for you, Nadir will have it. ."  
  
I looked down at him and did not flinch. His face had sunken in, I admit I was not prepared for what met my eyes, but to see him shrunken from the man of power he once was, it dulled the shock of his face. It was altogether sad, and shocking. "I like Church windows, in fact, that was probably the only thing I liked about it, except the music. Maman used to take me, a long time ago. My father bought this piece of stained looking glass, but I broke it one night, and I've never been able to forgive myself. "  
  
I held the glass in my hand for some time and noticed that he looked at it wearily. "Here," I whispered, and I brought my arm around his head and brought it up so that he could drink. I do not know what prompted the gesture only that it was built upon something between pity and the need to do better than people had ever before. No one need ever die alone, and I couldn't see him dying this way. He drank roughly, and then began to cough. I took the glass away, and didn't let go of my arm around his head. He didn't seem to be offended by it so as for myself I didn't stop it. It was just that I couldn't see the way others did. I had become like my mother, wanting to see something different. And I did.   
  
"I want you to have Christine's things. They belong to Christine, but as you know her-"  
  
I nodded. I know it was probably wrong, but humoring him wouldn't have harmed anything.   
  
"Take what you want of hers, for I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She has her own life. ..When the time comes, Megan Giry-"  
  
I began to cry. He seemed so pitiful, and I sat on the bed and sighed, and held his head for him so that he could speak. "I accept your gift. It was a lovely of you to think of me. Don't speak about-"  
  
"No, I implicity must!" He began to cough harder, and blood issued forth from the cover of his mouth. I took a handkerchief from my dress pocket and dabbled it for him, and nothing could stop myself from sobbing. I think he thought I was crying out of fear, but it couldn't be farther from the facts.   
  
"Don't tire yourself."  
  
"Oh I'm sure I will have plenty of time enough for rest. You must get Christine to come back to me, to bury me, she promised! I trust you to seek this out, for she trusted you. She loved you, in her own way. I heard a lot of stories about Mlle. Megan Giry, when she thought I was the angel of music."  
  
"Oh! I will do my best to try. She has not corresponded with me for a while, but I will try, I promise."   
  
His eyes watered over and tears fell down his face. "I must frighten you. You don't know what your touch and compassion, your mother's compassion, has meant to me. I couldn't express enough what that means, for perhaps later in your life you might understand. "   
  
"I understand enough now."  
  
His face lit up with amazement. "You're are a phenomenal woman, Megan Giry. I am sorry that I could not make you an Empress as I promised your mother. Christine is lucky to call you her friend."  
  
No one had ever called me a woman before, and I gasped at that. "It is alright, I will be happy whatever path I chose."  
  
He nodded and closed his eyes. "Yes, I suppose you will. "  
  
I was so frightened that by him closing his eyes that he was ready to die. I calmed myself, made my arms not shake. In retrospect I can see that he was kind enough to recognize this.  
  
"Megan Giry, I do believe that the Opera is starting above us. Do you know the aria from Hannibal?"  
  
I smiled. "Of course I do, I will never forget the night of the Gala."  
  
"Yes, it was my triumph."  
  
I smiled, thinking of the magical night when Christine firs t told me the story of the Angel of music and how he had returned to give her his blessing. "What is it that you ask of me?"  
  
" Will you sing it for me? I'm sure you know it well."  
  
I was stunned, and my voice was so weak, but I sung it feebly. I, Megan, had hardly found the desire to sing, but now I felt as if I was flying when I sung. Was this how Christine felt? She had described it as such. It was overtaking me, consuming me, and had it not been requested of me I would have stopped immediately, except that I didn't know how to stop.   
  
  
I saw him sigh contentedly and felt something change, though at the time, I really could not guess what it was. I only thought he was pleased with my voice and had fallen into sleep. I got up after laying his head back on the pillows and sat down in the chair near his bed, putting my hand upon his in a comforting gesture. I did not take notice of the coldness in his hands because his hands were always cold, and so I drifted off to sleep in exhaustion  
  
My next memory is that I woke to quiet sobbing, and Nadir had taken my hand away from his. I could not bear the sight of Erik's body covered from head to toe in a sheet and so I fled from my mother and everything until I finally made to the entrance of his home and covered my eyes. Why did he trust me enough to let himself go in front of me? Why did such a magnificent man have to die at all, the cause of death being love?  
  
All this fancy towards stories of tragedy made me sick, and very ill in respect to this situation. There was nothing glamorous about death , and broken hearts. Nothing. I prayed that Christine would come, that Nadir would not let me alone do it . I couldn't, even I was not strong enough to lift a coffin and put it in the ground. I knew that Nadir would help us, of course, but the very idea, oh, I shuddered!  
  
It was if the light had gone out from this place entirely.   
  
After some time my mother came out and held me. She said nothing-in fact, I don't know if saying anything about the situation would have helped. No one ever heard my singing that night, it was a secret between just Erik and I. Wherever Erik's soul rests I know he does not mind me imparting this secret.  
  
I would like to think that I made a difference in his life, that I gave him a drop of comfort in his final hour, though if this is true only Erik can really say. I do wish he will be one of the souls I find when I join the here after.   
  
I hardly knew him, and yet grief overwhelmed me in the days following. Whatever was left of the little girl that Megan was, is regretfully no longer, and I stand in this space between the two phases of my life, little girl and woman. I am grateful that he is laid to rest. I am grateful that Raoul allowed Christine to return to help me.   
  
She did so without complaint, and for a while when she visited my home we were friends again. It was nice to feel needed once more, even though she informed me that more than likely we would never see each other again. Raoul and Christine had to flee the Country because no one here in their home of Paris would let them go without persecution and mindless gossip. I did not blame her for this and wish her the best in life.  
  
I was surprised at her calmness when she saw my necklace, for it no doubt alarmed me when I received it , as well. For you see, I too keep one of Erik's secrets, in a form of a Persian fairy tale. I do not know truly why he made it for me, but it is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship nonetheless and I will treasure it always.   
  
It was a ceremony without much to be said. Nadir said one of his Persian prayers, Christine put a rose on the top of his coffin, a red rose, and I added a yellow one as Christine sung him to his rest, a piece from Faust, I believe. I know that I did not join her-for my voice was silent, and I sat near the grave and released my regret and anguish. It was unlike anything I had felt before to be so calm near death, and a grave.   
  
But Erik was here no longer, and it was as Christine said, the angel has been lain to rest. Then Nadir took to the task of filling in the grave, again, it isn't important to commit where to memory as some might disrespect the dead if I give the location. Christine could not watch, and neither could I, so we wandered back to Erik's home and sat, both of us with envelopes in our hands that we could only open after Erik had been buried.  
  
I opened mine first and was startled to find such a intricate necklace on a golden chain. It was stained glass work, a picture of a dove, blood dripping from it onto a beautiful white rose. I couldn't even guess what work it took to make such a beautiful thing. I broke down as Christine silently put it on me and I then I opened the letter inside. I will commit this to memory as it is a wonderful letter, the best I've received in my life, except from Christine, of course. The writing was crude, truly like children's handwriting and lacking in penmanship, but the sentiment was there.  
  
  
Mademoiselle Megan Giry,  
  
I give you this as a token of your mother's and yours friendship. Christine had always a cheerful word for you, and had told me the little story of the necklace, a friend's gift from her father destroyed, leaving her homesick. I do not know what it is like to have a father, and I shan't now, surely. The dove and the rose is a wonderful story, and I do believe, better than any fairy tale as it is true to life, at least to mine anyway. I wanted to give someone a moment of happiness as I hoped I had once given Christine, instead of horror. Hopefully I have achieved that, somehow.  
  
Take care of your mother, take care of Christine, for me.   
  
O.G.  
  
I sat in shock, and Christine swore she could not open hers in front of me. I did not mind and she did not ask any questions about my gift, though I'm sure it bothered her to no end. She wished to leave this part of her life behind, and I would always remind her of that. But at length, I think there is a chance for our friend ship in the future.  
  
Well my friend, the hour grows late. Not only late, but I have been sitting here so long that if I do not sleep now, I will miss practice in the morning entirely! I must stop here, and no fitter stopping place for one of my stories is there, truly. I believe that Erik has found peace. I believe that I am a better person for this, this moment of compassion.  
  
I can apply this to my life, and love with a deeper understanding of what it takes to love. The dove and the rose were doomed never to mate on earth, but maybe some day, he will find his rose in heaven.   
  
May God bless you and keep you,  
  
Megan Giry.  
  
  
  
Will someone please inform me why short stories are easier to write ? Sheesh..this only took a day and I hardly find strength to do write on anything else. Man I'm tired. *yawns* ok, you guys give pretty reviews while I am trying to catch up on my sleep, okie dokie? 


End file.
